Lit the Flame
by Taluliaka
Summary: At the Battle of Five Armies, Thorin Oakenshield regrets. Thofur.


**Lit The Flame**

* * *

**Disclaimer:** _I do not own The Hobbit. It belongs to the late, great J.R.R. Tolkien. The story title comes from the Les Miserables song 'Empty Chairs at Empty Tables', because you have to listen to angsty music if you're going to write a Thorin-centric story._

* * *

The battle is vicious, and the strength of the Company's charge can only pierce so much of the goblin line before it shudders to a halt, and each must turn aside to defend themselves.

Orcrist is hungry for throats; it hums and shivers with joy in his hand with each stroke. Back fall the wolves, yammering and howling with fear, and their goblin riders die as Thorin meets them steel for steel.

A fierce and wild joy claims him, the battle-lust of his fathers. For with the Mountain at his back, and Smaug destroyed, how can they fail now?

"To me! To me! Elves and Men! To me! O my kinsfolk!" Thorin calls, and they answer, clearing the way to Azog the Defiler. Thorin catches his gaze, the foul pale creature on his white warg, and again his Company charges, Dwalin to his right clashing his axes while he roars an ancient war-song. His nephews are on his left, and they acquit themselves well as they smash against the bodyguard of Azog.

Victory seems only a breath away to Thorin, and through a gap in the fighting he sees Bofur grimly wielding his mattock, crushing the skulls and limbs of all the goblins within the range of his weapon.

As he watches, Bofur spins the handle-

* * *

bringing the sharp pick-edge into play. Thorin ducks under the blow, but barely; the edge snags at his sleeve, tearing the black cloth to flutter against his wrist.

"Enough!" He says, bringing up his sword to block the next strike, and his opponent leans heavily on his mattock, grinning at him as sweat trickles down his face.

Thorin is tired as well, breathing hard. He is impressed despite himself. He has not before met this little trio of miner, toymaker and cook, and the dwarves who join this quest must be capable in battle. Balin reminds him often that he cannot afford to turn down volunteers, of which there are few enough, but it is Thorin who cannot afford to take untested kinsfolk into a dragon's den.

"So what's the verdict then? Can we join your Company?"

Thorin appraises the dwarf, who calls himself Bofur. He is suspicious of his comely features, his easy smile, the ring of his laughter as his cousin and brother press close to speak to him about the bout.

Thorin takes in the little group, standing side by side. Bombur is immense, but sturdy. Judging by the wound, Bifur was once a warrior, and one so affected could make a dangerous yet useful ally if he has beserker blood. And Bofur is capable, if strange to Thorin, who flinches as he smiles again at him. What is the purpose of such open kindness, if indeed it is not thinly veiled mockery?

"Yes, though I warn you that you may not-"

* * *

"Get back! Back! Uncle!" Fili roars, his knives dripping black blood in his hands. Thorin blinks, and sees the danger. In his rage he has driven in too fast and too hard, and his numbers are dwindling as the horde closes in at their backs.

And Azog is still far away, his warg tearing at the bodies of the fallen as his ugly blade rises and falls.

Thorin doubles back, saving Ori from beheading by inches as he attempts to prevent them being encircled. But it is too late. Elves and Men and Dwarves fall, and the twelve remaining members of his Company are forced into a tight circle, with their foes and weapons surrounding them.

Azog's bodyguard come leaping and howling into their midst, their fangs shining beneath their white helms, and his dwarves are staggering under the assault. A spearpoint finds Thorin under the arm, driving in through chainmail to flesh. He slays its owner and tears it free, and numbness spreads across his chest from the wound.

The next rush pushes him sideways, and on one knee Thorin's eyes find Bofur, his mattock slow and ungainly in such close quarters as a bowlegged little goblin darts in under his guard. The blade flashes in the sunlight and-

* * *

Horror jolts through his chest as he recognises the outline of that ridiculous hat. Thorin clings to the rock with numb fingers.

"The legends are true! Giants! Stone giants!"

"Get back, you fool!" He howls into the teeth of the storm, his fists clutching uselessly with the strength of his desire to bury his fingers into fabric and tear Bofur away from his precious monsters.

It is only later, in the relative safety of the mountain cave, that he can bring himself to speak to the miner without visible distress.

"Bofur..." He growls, and the other dwarf turns. At his unassuming smile Thorin's tongue turns to stone in his mouth. The things he wishes to say blur and twist in his mind.

_Never do that again._

_Do you smile at everything? Even your death?_

_You will walk ahead of me from now on. You obviously can't be trusted behind._

_I can't lose you._

Bofur's eyes flick down, only for an instant, and Thorin realises that his knuckles are white on the hilt of his sword.

"First watch." He grates out past the rocks that grind in his throat, and pretends not to see the flash of disappointment in the miner's eyes as he ducks his head.

Thorin forces himself to turn away -

* * *

And Kili grabs his arm and drags him back to his feet. He is shouting something that Thorin must lean close to hear over the din of battle.

"The Eagles are here! The Eagles have come! Now we have a chance, Uncle! The Eagles!"

But even with their great shadows darting over as they do battle with the foul bats that have come down from the Misty Mountains, they are still outnumbered. A great bull of a goblin rams into Thorin, slamming into his wounded side more by luck than design, and Thorin drops Orcrist into the mud.

His oaken shield is splintered and battered, but still strong, and he thrusts the sharp edges into the eyes of his enemy as he lunges for his sword. With a great sweep, he relieves the huge goblin of his head and turns, straight into the path of another spear. This one pierces his forearm, rendering his sword arm useless, and Thorin cannot prevent a cry of pain from springing to his lips -

* * *

"Hold still!" Oin scolds as he bathes the punctures Azog's warg left in his stomach and side. Thorin tries to take a calming breath, but it hitches at the bite of his broken ribs.

They have made a hasty camp at the foot of what Gandalf calls the Carrock. They have paused only to tend to Thorin, and he grinds his teeth at the delay. But Oin insisted that he could go no further without attention, and Balin and Dwalin backed him wholeheartedly, threatening to hold Thorin down to make him submit. So he does, albeit with bad grace, and attempts to distance himself from the discomfort by watching his Company as they tend their own wounds, and examine their singed clothing and notched weapons.

Bofur is sitting with their burglar, inexplicably cheerful as always. He is playing a merry tune on his pipe, no doubt to cheer Bilbo up after the terrors of the burning pine forest. The faint sound drifts to Thorin's ears, and longing smites him like a blow. How he wishes that he were there in the hobbit's place, waiting for another leader to be ready to travel! How he wishes he could sit beside Bofur and laugh at his jests, place a hand casually on his shoulder, sing and exchange barbs of wit!

How he wishes! But what could he offer, an exiled king, his kingdom a thing of dreadful rumour and shadows? The jeers of the Great Goblin still sting in his head and heart.

No home. An uncertain future. A foolish hope. What if all he is leading his Company to is -

* * *

Death rings Thorin, piled three and four bodies high. He has discarded his shield and sheathed bloody Orcrist. He has taken a battleaxe from the ground, the handle familiar and heavy in his uninjured left hand.

The circle of defenders has been crushed into disarray. Everywhere his dwarves are fighting for their lives.

He sends the axe cleaving through a goblin's skull, slices the arm from another, girds himself in a deadly ring of steel, ignoring the drag on his limbs, the blood he can feel flowing under his mail.

Then suddenly Azog the Defiler is there, stalking towards him, his blade stained with the blood of Thorin's people.

"You stand alone, Thorin Oakenshield. Soon the Gate will be lost, and I will mount your head on a spear as a lesson to all Dwarf-scum."

Thorin takes deep breaths, slowing the thunder of his heart. He holds the axe in both hands, loosening his stiff arm muscles, refusing to show the agony that flares in his right when he lifts the axe.

"The last time we met in battle I took your arm. You must be eager to lose another limb."

Azog snarls, and they close together fiercely, forgetting all other enemies in their hatred. Each blow is a killing one, and Thorin comes so near, his axe blade scything towards Azog's neck. But Azog dodges, and the axe bites deeply into the meat of the orc's shoulder instead. Azog howls in pain, and lashes out with his steel hook-hand, catching Thorin across the face.

Blinded with blood, he falls and faintly he hears Fili screaming his name.

Thorin lies stunned, staring blankly at the pale sky thick with smoke. The great silhouette of an eagle blocks the light briefly, and is gone.

Azog's foot slams down on his chest, holding him in place. The ugly serrated sword he carries pinches painfully as the tip rests on Thorin's belly.

The Defiler wipes black gore from a head wound and chuckles quietly.

"You taught your nephews well. That little gold haired one nearly had me. But once I killed the other, he lost his head."

Azog leans his weight into Thorin's chest, grinding him into the ground.

"Now it is your turn to die, King under the Mountain."

And a deep pain rips through Thorin, and he chokes-

* * *

up what must be half the River currently residing in his lungs. Bilbo is hovering anxiously over him, wringing his hands.

"Are you all right?" He squeaks, trying to pull Thorin up, and failing miserably.

"Yes, yes... well done Mr Baggins. I see we have made it."

The hobbit beams, and behind him Thorin can see a ragged line of similarly afflicted dwarves on the shore. Fili is splayed dramatically on the sand, jesting about his hatred of apples following the journey in his scented barrel. Bombur looks like a drowned rat, lying on his face and making no attempt to gain his feet.

Thorin looks for Bofur, and cannot find him.

"There are still three to come." Bilbo tells him, scanning the fast-flowing river.

"Dwalin, Ori and Bofur. I hope we haven't missed them... Wait! There!"

He points, and Thorin immediately spots the three, bobbing considerably lower in the water than the empty ones. He orders Fili and Kili into the water, and wades out himself to snag one as they pass.

They drag them to shore, and set about knocking off the watertight lids. Fili is wisely scrambling out of Dwalin's way as he emerges from his barrel, drenched and savage-looking. Kili is helping young Ori find his feet.

Which leaves...

Bofur clambers from his barrel patting at his soaked braids with a look of dismay.

"My hat!" He cries, looking mournfully at the water.

Thorin spots the ratty-looking thing tossing about in the shallows and retrieves it. Bofur rewards him with a smile as bright as the sun.

"What are you so pleased about?"

He means it to sound bad-tempered, but Thorin is genuinely curious as to what thoughts this dwarf has to keep him from the black moods Thorin is so familiar with.

Bofur blinks at him good-naturedly.

"Why, what isn't there to be pleased about? We've escaped from the Elven-king, the sun is shining, and my hat survived the journey."

Bofur crams it back onto his head where it droops and drips river-water onto his shoulders.

The miner laughs, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

"Be of good cheer, Thorin Oakenshield. We are not dead yet-"

* * *

"-but he will not last until the morning."

Gandalf's voice is low, but it still carries through the tent walls to where Thorin lies. He watches the wizard's shadow lay a hand on Bilbo's shoulder, and then the Halfling turns away and his shadow slides up the tent's side and disappears.

Thorin is glad he had a chance to make known his regrets to Bilbo Baggins. He is glad that the rest of his Company survived, faithful Balin, sturdy old Bombur. He has given Dain Ironfoot instruction, and he trusts that he will be a good King under the Mountain, perhaps wiser than Thorin himself would ever have been.

He has bid farewell to them all, separately. He means to die with no regrets, and his last and most painful removes his hat at he enters, clutching it in dirty fingers.

"Bofur." Thorin sighs. His relief is like a balm on his burning flesh.

"My king."

"Come closer, and sit by me." As he does, Thorin studies him for obvious wounds. There is a gash in his forehead, and he limps as he moves, but Bofur seems in no immediate danger.

Thorin pulls him forward as he sits, his fingers searching for any wound where he had seen the goblin's knife -

"I saw in the battle... there was a goblin. I thought he stabbed you."

Bofur's fingers curl over his, stopping his investigation.

"No. No. 'Twas Nori who saved me, truth be told. Saw it coming before I did. I'm fine."

"Good." Thorin slumps back upon his makeshift bed and stares at Bofur, trying to write every line into his memory. He looks worn and tired, and Thorin wishes that he would smile again.

"Did you ever think that I loved you?"

The question makes Bofur's brow wrinkle. He opens his mouth and doesn't seem to know how to answer. Thorin rushes on, recklessly as ever he did into battle, because this is his end and nothing matters but the truth.

"Because I did. I do love you."

Bofur stares at him, for once struck speechless. Thorin chuckles a little, though it hurts.

"I was a fool never to say it until now. I don't even know when it begun. Mayhap it was from the moment we sparred."

"But you disliked me then! I've never seen you so suspicious as you were then, when we asked to join your quest."

"I did not understand you. I still do not." Thorin admits.

"I am not of a line freely given to... laughter and joy. But it made my heart warm when you did it."

Bofur rubs a grimy hand over his forehead.

"I don't know what to say."

"Well, it matters little now, when every moment brings me closer to my fate. But I did not want to leave without...telling you."

If Bofur answers, it is lost in Thorin's sudden fit of coughing. It feels as though Azog's sword is in his stomach still, twisting and gouging, and he gags as thick trails of blood leak from his mouth.

When the pain subsides a little, Thorin finds himself half on Bofur's lap. The miner's arms are tight about him, and his fingers are trembling as they stroke his face and hair. He is whispering nonsense phrases, reassurances that do not seem to ring so false when Bofur says them, and Thorin relaxes into his love's arms.

"Did you ever love me?" He asks, when he has a little breath to spare.

Bofur half-laughs, half-sobs, kissing his forehead and rocking him back and forth.

"You were a king, you were like Durin come again. Of course I loved you. Of course I loved you. But I never thought..."

Thorin raises a heavy hand. Bofur lets him touch his face and braids like a lover, and his tears leave tracks of pale skin amongst the grime.

"I am...glad that...I told you."

"You will not die." Bofur hisses, suddenly fierce, and his arms and legs tighten around Thorin protectively.

"I will not let you die."

"I fear it is...too late to change that now. But I am...still glad."

"No." Bofur growls, hiding his tears in Thorin's unbound hair.

But Thorin is drifting now, warm and safe, and all sensations have simply dissolved, except for Bofur's touch and his breath and his tears like tiny jewels on Thorin's skin.

"I would have you smile again." He tells Bofur, from somewhere far away.

His nephews are there, bold Kili and Fili in the motes of gold dust that swirl through the tent. Thorin blinks, and they solidify, no longer ghosts but living flesh, cleansed of the blood of the battlefield.

They are here to guide him to his rest. And Thorin Oakenshield goes with no regrets, for he is loved, and loves in return, and it is enough.

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**Author's Note:** _Making this story canon-compliant may be one of the most evil things I've ever done._

_Concrit always appreciated,_

_**Taluliaka.**_


End file.
